Work For Free
by The Little Scorpion
Summary: A match made in Hell.
1. chapter 1

"Bella," the Dark Lord murmurs, voice silky and low, "you know I don't give favours unearned."

With these words, his hand closes on her shoulder, and her world narrows to his fingertips.

His first finger grazes her skin, the only one to do so, dragging idly back and forth. His second, third, and fourth close on the fabric of her dress, dots of pressure on the hollows of her collarbone, firm but not hard. His thumb caresses the back of her shoulder, coaxing wanting out of her, drawing her belly back towards her spine, her breasts forward in an arch, and pooling warmth between her thighs.

His body is close behind her, his breath warm and close near her ear. His free hand rests on her belly.

"No, my Lord," she says. There is a tremor in her voice. His…favours…can leave her weak at the knees.

The hand on her belly kneads her there, just a fraction. Just enough to summon hot-coloured images in her mind.

"And I know you don't work for free." The hand on her shoulder shifts, just a fraction, over the ball of her shoulder. She can imagine it moving lower, finding her breast, and she presses against him harder.

"One does not devalue one's labours, my Lord," she says breathlessly. "No matter how…" she swallows as the hand on her belly presses harder. "…how worthy the cause."

"An admirable sentiment," he says. She can feel his lips against her ear. "My best soldiers are the strong ones, the ones who know their worth. It is what we fight for, is it not? To make them know our worth?" He shifts a fraction behind her, hardness insinuating itself into the groove between her thighs through the silk of their clothes.

"Oh, yes, my Lord." Her body stretches, arse back into his cock, belly forward into his hand, shoulder back into his palm, breasts straining forward under the tension of the way her has her.

"And what are your terms for your labours, Bella?" he wonders. With a flick of his head, he summons a swirl of vapour before her, a mirror in which they are reflected. "Show me."

She shivers at the sight of them there, the way he holds her, taut and poised. The way his face is turned into her hair, insinuating silky, coaxing syllables into her ear. He is the devil on her shoulder, using her own desires to drive her exactly where he wants her to go.

Her gaze crawls avidly over the image, and slowly, she brings her desires to life before them.

In the vapour, still standing behind her, he teases down the center of her body with his wand, and the tiny buttons of her dress unfasten ahead of him. He touches her thighs with his wand, parting them, and then opens her nether lips with the V of his fingers. Her clit is hard, pushing forward, seeming to beg to be touched, and her lips are pink and wet. Her head falls back against his shoulder, and his free hand cradles her throat possessively.

Watching, Bella feels her nipples begin to ache. Her insides clench, drenching her knickers, her scent rising in the air.

His voice is low and even, but there is a ragged undertone that even he can't entirely hide. She doesn't think he really intends to. "You wish me to take you, then, Bella? Is that it?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"How?"

The scene changes before them, flickers and impressions. Kneeling before him, licking the tip of his cock, taking gleaming fluid and spreading it over him with her tongue. Him taking her, hard from behind. Laying her flat on her belly, her legs pressed tight together, as he fucks down into her cunt, stretching her every which way. Stretching her out before him on her back, easing his cock over her open pussy, teasing her clit with it until she strains forward, begging for him to just do it already. Him covering her, the full length of his body pressed to hers as he overwhelms her, thrusting into her with all his weight.

His hand on her belly clenches a little, dragging at her dress. It is a sudden, uncontrolled moment, and that, she thinks, was not calculated. She feels a delicious thrill at this small victory.

"You want me to fuck you, Bella?" he demands, low in her ear.

She can only manage a groan, but she nods.

"You want me to fuck you deep, and hard, in your swollen, pink, wet cunt? You want me to shove my cock into you as far as it will go?"

Damn him, she thinks; he knows just how to get her. Just how to bring her most of the way to the brink in a handful of words.

"I want you to plow me with it," she hisses. "I want you to fuck me raw."

He gives a small huff of amusement into her ear. She will struggle to fulfil his mission without finding a darkened corner to get herself off in first, and he knows it, damn him. That's half the fun of it for him, making her strain, making her ache. He loves that he has that power.

The image in the vapour changes before her.

"Your mission, Bella," he says, loosening his hands on her, drawing away, his voice now quite normal.

It is a simple one. "Yes, my Lord."

He leans in once more. His voice close to her ear, he says silkily:

"You see, I don't work for free either."


	2. Two

Sirius Black is sleeping.

The man is an idiot. He presumably has a perfectly good hideout somewhere, but does he sleep there? No. He comes to the cheapest, crappiest brothel in Knockturn Alley, gets his miserable rocks off, and then lies down in a doorway and sleeps with the fleas like a -

Well, like the dog that he currently is. Filthy, flea-bitten cretin.

At least his mind is easier to fuck with that way.

She watches him, reflecting with some amusement that any one of them could have pulled this particular mission off. Hell, even Scabior could have managed it. But giving it to her means the Dark Lord gets to have her afterwards, and at this point, neither he nor she is really sure whether sex is the means or the end.

She does know that he would never have played any of tonight's games over anything that really mattered, though - at least not right beforehand. When he needs her at her best, not only will he not distract her himself, he won't allow anyone else to, either. Although he certainly makes it up to her afterwards.

In a way, she thinks that's really why she's been given this mission tonight. He is sating her so she can focus on the real mission tomorrow.

He knows her too well.

She remembers again his hand clenching on her belly, and shivers. There's nothing in the world better than when he loses control with her. She feels that slow, deep ache again in her clit, and squirms. Her knickers are tight, and she grinds down against their center seam.

She wants to get back to him, to let him do anything and everything to her, and so, swiftly, efficiently, she slides into the cretin's mind.

* * *

She finds herself in his half-formed dream.

He is in Azkaban, watching. Watching everything, everyone. Herself and Rodolphus, others too. Every thought lightly coated with hatred and slime and blackness. The Dementors seem further from him than from some, but closer, too. Like he is infected with them yet also immune.

His senses seem uncannily sharp in the dim light. She is the only woman there, and his eyes follow her everywhere. He eyes the slope of her breast with malevolent hunger.

As his gaze traces her breast down in his dream, Bella's hand traces hers in the alley, her fingers brushing over the embroidery of her dress, reminding her that she is outside his mind as well as within it.

A slow, greedy smile rises on her lips. She had just intended to plant the desired image in his mind, take what she needed, and leave. But now, seeing what is already there, and its potential, she has a much better plan.

She leans back against the wall. Slips her hand into an opening at her skirt that appears to be a pocket, but isn't. Through it, she searches beneath her dress, beneath her knickers. Finds her clit with her fingertips, and, leisurely, she begins to rotate it. Lets her juices flow, drenching her knickers, letting her scent fill the air.

So doing, she sets herself free in his mind.

* * *

"You really ought to fuck her while she's asleep, you know."

Rodolphus says this lazily beside him as he watches Bella sleep in the corner.

In his dream, it does not seem extraordinary that his estranged cousin-in-law should sit companionably beside him and say such a thing. It is as natural as any ridiculous notion taken for granted in a dream, and Sirius considers the suggestion with the appropriate level of seriousness.

"Should I, really?"

"Oh, yes," Rodolphus says. "She likes it when I do it. Says she dreams of the Dark Lord." In a joking undertone, he adds, "Can't say I see the appeal, myself."

Sirius narrows his eyes, because even his hazy dream-logic is momentarily troubled by the ease of Rodolphus' response. He says suspiciously, "Why would you let me do that?"

Rodolphus shrugs. "I haven't seen her take it in years. I miss watching it." He adds fondly, "There's nothing quite like watching someone appreciate her. She's really quite magnificent, don't you think?"

Sirius might not share the fondness, but he can't deny the magnificence. He hasn't seen another woman in years, and the way her prison dress is pulled up to reveal pale, creamy thighs makes his eyes water.

Not to mention his cock.

Rodolphus recedes into the periphery of his dream, his function fulfilled, and Sirius rises and walks over to the sleeping woman.

He drops to his knees, and gently grasps her sleeping form. Turns her carefully onto her back. She shifts in her sleep, but does not wake, and her thighs fall open easily as he does it.

He kneels between them.

Her prison dress is shorter than it was in reality, and it has ridden up her thighs. Slowly, carefully, he draws it up, over her hips, bringing her pussy into view.

He glances up at Bella's face. She appears still deeply asleep. His mind has edited her dress further, made it low-cut and thin and tight, and her breasts swell against the fabric. It's worn through in spots, and he can see her nipples, hard and proud in the cool night air.

His cock is hard and proud, too, standing firmly to attention against his stomach. (That has been edited too, with an additional couple of inches).

He turns his attention back between her thighs.

She's bare, the way he likes it (oh, the convenience of dreams) and the flesh of her lips is pink and swollen and lush. Between them, her clit is hard, standing to attention, and her slit is parted, a cavern with gleaming moisture pooling visibly inside.

He takes his cock firmly in hand. It gleams with clear fluid, mirroring her open, waiting cunt.

Slowly, he eases his cockhead up and down her pussy. He nudges it over her clit and back again, watching it swell, feeling it slide back and forth over the tip of his cock. He eases it down into the dip of her opening, coating it with her juices. It takes all his strength not to just ram it into her, but he draws it out again, back up to her clit.

The sleeping woman before him arches, moaning. Her legs fall open wider and her mouth falls open, too. The tip of her tongue runs lazily over her lips.

With his free hand, he gives her breast a squeeze, feeling a little surge of power when her breaths grow shallow and faster. His squeezes grow firmer until he is kneading her cruelly, and she squirms and writhes under his hand.

"That's it, Bella," he mutters. "Beg me to fuck you. Beg for my cock."

Bella moans again in her sleep, higher and pleading this time. Her hips ease back and forth blindly against him. Trying to get him inside her.

With difficulty, he holds back, rotating her clit with his thumb while he pumps his cock.

She whines a little, pushing down against him, whimpering. "My Lord, please-"

Irritated by the mention of her sodding Lord, he thrusts three blunt fingers into her, hard. He curls them, cutting off her whimpers. They are replaced with sudden clenching and moans.

"That's better," he hisses. "Good girl." He pulls his hand free and insinuates his slick fingers into her mouth.

She sucks on them on reflex, her eyes still closed. She gives a little protesting whine, her hips rotating a little, and he can see her slit twitching where he pulled his fingers away.

"You don't like an empty cunt, then, Bella?" he taunts. "You need cock? Tell me you need my cock. Tell me you need it in your slutty little pussy. Tell me you want me to fuck your hole. All your holes."

"Cock," she mumbles, a slight, hungry catch in her voice.

"Close enough," he smirks, and, abruptly, he slides easily into her.

"Ohhh," she sighs, her walls clinging to him as he shoves himself into her up to the hilt.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck. You were made to take it." He thrusts into her, hard. He isn't going to last long. "You like my prick, Bella? You like it?"

"I love it," she groans ecstatically. "My Lord!"

He's too into it now to give a shit who she thinks he is. He just fucks her harder.

(As his orgasm approaches, Bella allows a glimpse of them to break into the dream. Himself sleeping as a dog on one side of the alley, her leaning against the other wall with her hand beneath her skirt, eyes closed, touching herself).

He pauses in the dream, arrested on the brink, and then there is a flicker in both their minds as he becomes aware. Biding for time, he resumes thrusting, but more evenly now.

(In the alley, the dog Transfigures into a man, watching her warily as he does it. He studies her for a second or two from a distance, brow puckering, and it seems to be strongly on his mind to kill her. Bella watches him in his own mind's eye, ready to Apparate away if need be, but the impulse seemingly passes. Instead, he comes up close to the writhing woman before him, watching her dispassionately. Her eyes are still closed and her fingers are moving frantically beneath her skirt).

"Come on, Bella," he murmurs in his dream as he fucks her hard into the floor. "Come for the Dark Lord."

("Come on, Bella," he murmurs in the alley as he tests the edges of her mind. His hand is lifting her skirt, slowly, and his eyes fix on the way she fucks herself with her hand. "Show me the Dark Lord. Show me where to find him.")

Bella's mouth falls open in his dream as her body spasms. Her mind falls open, too. "My Lord," she rasps as she is on the edge. "Please - let me come-"

(In the alley, Bella allows the clouds of her mind to part. A calendar with tomorrow's date circled. Then, the Department of Mysteries. The hallway. Rows and rows of prophecies. She allows him to walk, and stores the memory away in her mind for re-use when they strike tomorrow. Perhaps he will go there, perhaps not, but either way, the Dark Lord can use the memory to lure the boy).

He pauses in the dream, cruelly. "You want to come, Bella?"

"Yes," she begs. "Please!"

He has never been able to resist a begging woman. Especially not this one.

("Come for me, then, you filthy little slut," he hisses in the alley, shoving his fingers hard up into her drenched, clenching pussy, and she comes all over his hand.)

* * *

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, bitch? Are you that hard up for a fuck these days?"

His hands are on her wrists, holding them to the wall, and that means regrettably that neither his nor hers are still in her cunt. Bella clenches and squirms, her body aching.

"I mean, I'd understand it if you were here to kill me, but what the bloody hell was that?"

Bella shrugs and pouts, deliberately girlish. "I just thought it would be fun to fuck with you a bit. Can't a girl have a bit of fun?"

Sirius gives a sound of disgust. "You're just as mental now as you were when we were at school."

Bella pokes her tongue out at him. "Two wars and Azkaban didn't make either of us sane. There's a bloody surprise."

"Shut up. Incarcerous," he adds.

Vines descend from a planter box in the window above her head and twine around her wrists, her upper body, holding her firmly in place against the wall. Too firmly for her to free herself with the force of her body. The pressure, the tautness of being held that way sends a thrill of pleasure pulsing through her veins.

She could break the vines with magic if she really wanted to, but she doesn't. If he wants to get his rocks off pretending she's at his mercy, fine. She'll play. And anyway, even the illusion of danger adds a new thrill; it's a long time since she's played with someone who hates her the way Sirius does. She can smell the blood lust on him and it awakens her own.

He is unbuttoning her skirt from the waist, opening it, baring her to the cool night air. Her legs are spread wide. Her knickers are pulled to one side, into the crease of her inner thigh, pussy lips hot and swollen and open where she'd gotten herself off with her hand.

His eyes crawl over her, gleaming darkly with unconcealed hunger and loathing. He tugs at her knickers and, deliberately, cruelly, he rips open the center seam. The threads break open easily; they are made to be torn. He pulls the two halves of her knickers wide apart to frame her pussy and looks at his handiwork with satisfaction.

The rough hostility of it makes her cunt let go, makes slick wetness seep down her thighs, and she knows he must be able to see it and smell it, knows it must make his cock hard and ache in his pants, knows it must make him hate himself and her.

He finds the false pockets of her skirt with a curious arch of his eyebrows.

"Still just as much of a whore," he says reflectively. "Is there anything about you that isn't fuckable?"

"Not much," she says cheerfully. She hasn't missed the way his cock is tenting in his pants. He might hate her, but that doesn't stop him from jolting to attention at the idea of her hands in her dress, playing frantically with her clit while he fucked her in his dream. The bastard's gagging for it, looking for any excuse at all to cram his cock into her and pound her until she's a quivering, pussy-drenched wreck against the wall.

How positively delicious.

He turns his attention to her breasts. He unbuttons her dress from the top, baring her down to where the vines are holding her waist. Tugs the cups of her bra down so her breasts spill out. Their dusky tips are round and full; they tighten in the cool night air, and he squeezes them with blunt, hard fingers, drawing them out to their full extent.

"That's better," he says, standing back to admire the way he has displayed her, wet and oh, so fuckable. "That's the Bella I remember. Pinned down and spread wide open, just waiting for someone to fuck her brains out. Am I the first tonight? Or has someone been there before me?" He slides his fingers into her, and out again, tasting her. "First. Should I be honoured?"

"Hardly," she says, but his words make her ache. Slick juices trickle freely from her cunt, down her thighs. He catches them with his fingers and spreads them over her clit until she groans and pushes herself down into his hand.

"I remember the last time I had you like this," he hisses, and the gleam in his eye reminds her of the old Sirius, before he became so utterly insufferable. "Seventh Year. Prim little school uniform. Your shirt was stretched so tight over your tits that the buttons ripped off in my hands. Your skirt barely covered your arse and your slutty little knickers. You and Rod set it up. He'd already fucked you. He was dripping out of you when I found you, all trussed up and soaking wet and begging for it. You were a filthy little fuckwhore even then." His grin flickers sideways. "Maybe your little dream tonight wasn't as farfetched as I thought. Maybe he really does like to see you take it."

"No, that one was for the greater good," she says, although he isn't wrong about Rodolphus. "We hoped to entice you back to the family."

"Ugh," he says. "Pity."

"Oh, don't be a sore loser. You still got to fuck me."

"Pfft. Who hasn't?"

Bella's eyes narrow, and with a flick of her head, she Vanishes the vines and starts to pull away.

He is on her then, his breath hot and heavy, pinning her hard with all his weight. "Oh, no, you don't. You don't get away that easily."

A thrill shoots through her at the dark gleam in his eye, at the sudden force of his body and the way he's pinned her. The way his cock is shoved hard into her belly, winding her. The way his ragged voice promises to fuck her without mercy. Underneath all the insufferable ideas and self-pity, he's still a Black. He's cruel and ruthless and he'll fuck her that way, trying to break her limits, but she doesn't have any. Her nipples ache, pressed hard against his chest, and her cunt is overflowing down her thighs.

"What's the matter, Mutt?" she hisses. "Did I hurt your widdle feelings? Stop fucking around and fuck me. Go on, I dare you. Show the filthy fuckwhore who's in charge. If you can."

With a roar of frustration, he turns her around, and shoves her hard to the wall, so fast it knocks the breath out of her. He drags her arms behind her, yanking them across her back, holding them crossed in one tight, cruel hand.

She rolls her hips up and out, open and waiting.

With one quick move, he has her skirt all the way up around her waist, and then he shoves himself up into her, all the way to the hilt, making her cry out. Her breasts are pressed flat to the wall and her body is stretched, from shoulders to wrists. His cock is thick and it opens her wide. Her whole body shudders with his slamming thrusts, and she cries out with each one, pinned between the wall and his merciless prick.

"Take it, bitch," he rasps. "Take it all. I'm going to fuck you til you can't even walk."

Only one man has ever managed that, and Sirius doesn't even come close, but the thought of it makes her groan, makes shudders grip her, makes her vocabulary shrink to fuck and yes and hard and deep. Her cries echo through the alleyway, a rhythmic beat breaking through them as he pounds her into the wall. He wrings one climax after another out of her until they all run together, until finally he comes himself.

He pulls out of her with a roar, turning her around, and doesn't help her when her knees buckle beneath her. His cock is still jerking in his hand, and he holds himself out. Spurts of his come lash her breasts, marking her nipples and bra. He smears the swollen, wet tip of his cock across her mouth.

"Take it," he hisses.

She sucks him clean, hungrily, relishing the taste and shape of him beneath her tongue. It doesn't stop her from staring up at him malevolently, but his cock is too good to waste on politics.

"Happy?" she snaps when she's done.

He uses his thumb to spread his come over her mouth and chin. He eyes his handiwork critically. "Now, I'm happy."

She wonders what he thinks he's doing. Humiliating her, maybe? Or maybe just marking her. Underneath it all, he really is just a filthy bloody dog.

He hauls her up by the arm, none too gently, and she leans docilely against the wall. He buttons her dress up over her naked breasts, the cups of her bra still pulled down. He buttons it down over her hips, just past her torn knickers, and leaves the rest of her skirt open. Cool air reaches her thighs and her swollen flesh. She doesn't need a mirror to know she looks a bloody mess. Makeup smeared, hair wild, semen splashed on her dress and trickling down her mouth and her thighs. She smells to high heaven of sex; it's on her skin and in the fabric of her clothes. She looks well and truly, well, fucked.

"Go on," he snarls, "go back to them like that. They think you're a warrior? I know what you are. You're just a good fuck. If you're the best they've got, then we're gonna win."

She leans in close. "I'm both," she hisses. "And that'swhy we'll win."


	3. Three

"Bella, my dear. You've had a busy night."

The Dark Lord says this when she arrives in his study in the early hours of the morning, washed and dressed as though the preceding hours had never happened.

But he sees it in her mind, and perhaps in the bone-tiredness of her body, too. It had crept up on her as she bathed and dressed, and it is stronger now.

"Yes, my Lord," she says, closing the door firmly behind her as he beckons her to his desk. He is seated behind it, looking at blueprints and schematics of the Department of Mysteries. He puts them carefully aside.

She comes up to the desk and stands in front of him, waiting. He watches her for some moments, his hands folded thoughtfully, rifling through her memories of the evening. Filling out his initial gleanings with detail.

Presently, he speaks.

"I have always admired your ability to seize an opportunity when it is before you, Bella," he says. With a tone of amusement, he adds, "And I note that you have used it to work your way through several of the ambitions you had for this evening."

"I'm conscious that you're a busy man, my Lord."

"Your commitment to efficiency is commendable," he says dryly. "But I did notice something about the events of this evening. You have a certain modus operandi, do you not? You persuade men that they are in control of you, when in fact, you are controlling them."

Bella cocks her head to one side. "I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

"Firstly, in Sirius' dream, you led him to believe he was using your body against your will, when in fact, you were present in his mind and orchestrating the entire event. And then, in the alley, you goaded him into taking you without regard for your pleasure, when in fact you were manipulating him to do exactly what you wanted him to do all along."

"Oh, well, yes, I suppose, but-" she begins, but the Dark Lord cuts her off.

"Then there is Rodolphus. An affectionate and mutually-beneficial relationship, I admit. Nonetheless, you have successfully manipulated him down the years. You have convinced him to consider your escapades arousing, something with which he can tantalise and master you, so he will be less inclined to stand in the way of what you simply wish to do."

With some reluctance, she inclines her head, conceding that this is the case.

"A good servant must submit, when the situation requires it, Bella," he counsels. "Your tendency to manipulate and control, while entertaining and sometimes useful, must not be allowed to become the norm."

"Yes, my Lord," she agrees. She wonders whether he intends to master her tonight, to emphasise the point. The idea awakens a flicker of interest between her thighs, but she's also tired, rocking a little on her feet.

She cannot say so. It would be unforgivable, to be too tired for her Lord after letting others have her. Whatever he has in mind for her, she will do. Sleep can wait.

He is still watching her, thoughtfully, a smile curling around the corners his mouth, and she realises he is back in her mind. She hadn't felt him enter. She is more tired than she'd thought.

"Yes, you are," he says thoughtfully, "and it was careless of you to allow it. Exhaustion creates suggestibility. It opens the mind and dismantles defences. It allows mastery. A dangerous thing, Bella."

Shame washes over her, hot and leisurely. Her body feels heavy under its weight. "Forgive me, my Lord."

"I do forgive you," he says mildly. "But I, too, have the ability to take an opportunity when it is before me, and I intend to take this one."

"Yes, my Lord." She has an inkling, now, of where this is going, although not the specifics. Her pulse kicks up a couple of beats, just enough for her to feel a constriction in her chest, and she feels warmth gathering lazily in her breasts. There is a dream-like quality to the way her body responds, like she's being lapped at lazily by a wave of hot, swirling colours.

He rises and comes around the desk, into her space. "For tonight, Bella, you will submit. Completely and without question."

Docilely, she nods. "Yes, my Lord." Her words seem to come slower than usual.

"Very well," says. "On your knees, then." She feels a pulse between her thighs, feels them grow wet as she sinks down unsteadily before him, her pupils enormous. "Pleasure me."

Slowly, like moving underwater, she pushes back his robes and takes his cock in her hand. Licks up its full length, staring up at him. Her sense of proportion is off; his cock seems huge and his face far away.

When she reaches the tip, she takes him in her mouth. Her tongue traces over the head of his cock, over the ridge in the centre, over the opening, seeped with salty, male fluid. She draws her mouth around him, more leisurely than normal. What had he said? Suggestibility? To her, her world has narrowed to his cock. It fills her vision, and there is no room for anything else. Her overactive mind has fallen blessedly silent.

After a while - she doesn't know how long - it occurs to her to look up at him. He is staring down at her, his eyes ablaze. He loves seeing her like this, drowning in him, she thinks. He loves it even more than what she's doing to his cock.

She lowers her head, holding his cock straight upwards, and ducks under to lick and suck his balls, still staring up at his intent gaze. She works her way back up him, exploring all the way up his length.

Before she can do more than that, he bends over and grasps her chin. Kisses her hard, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he searches for the front of her cloak with his free hand. Uses it to drag her half-up off the floor, suspended by her cloak, and kisses her until she's giddy. Her nipples and clit go off like lights behind her eyes, ricocheting back and forth through her suspended body, until her knickers are soaked and she feels like she's seeing stars.

Finally, he drags her up to face him, holding her chin once more, and pulls her into a bruising kiss, one that devours her mouth. Turns her hard around to face the desk, brooking no argument. The sudden movement leaves her dizzy, and she grips the desk for balance as he drags her cloak off her. She rocks on her heels as he flings it away.

He bends her hard over the desk, her arse in the air, dress shoved up to bare her to the room. Something about the heaviness of her limbs makes the sharp movements that much more intense, like he's already thrusting into her, like her body is rocking with it. Her clit aches and her head is pounding and her cunt is ready, so ready.

He wrenches her soaked knickers down, over her arse, and whispers into her ear, "You're wet for me, Bella."

"Yes, my Lord," she says breathlessly, her words all jumbled up together, "so wet, you make me so wet, my Lord-"

"Master," he hisses.

"Master," she echoes, and is rewarded by his fingers working her clit. They are firm, demanding, but also slow and measured, somehow matching the rocking of her body and the whirling of her mind.

He builds her up slowly - at least, she thinks it's slow; it's hard to be sure. So slow that she doesn't realise she's on the brink. Not until, through the fog, she feels his long fingers abruptly breaching her soaking wet cunt.

He works her fast with them, harder and faster than he's ever worked her, a sudden pounding that straddles the line between pleasure and pain. It takes her breath away and makes her body spasm, jerking half in protest, half craving more. She slumps down hard on her elbows, her head resting on his rolled-up maps, her cries shuddering with his thrusts. He fucks her with his hand until she doesn't think she can take it, until he draws out the climax she didn't know was there. He shocks it out of her, makes her wail with it, her whole body quaking, her flesh on fire with it.

"What do you want me to do to you?" he demands as she lays there on the desk, whimpering gratefully, her pussy still seizing, still looking for the hand he's withdrawn.

Her knees are weak, barely holding her upright, and her mind is whirling. "I want you to fuck me."

"Wrong answer," he says, and she doesn't know why it was wrong. But she thinks he's going to leave her there as punishment. If he does, she thinks she will just slump there on his desk and sleep there, her arse still propped indignantly in the air.

He must have caught the thought; he betrays a small sound of amusement. "As entertaining as I'm sure Lucius would find that in the morning, Bella, no. You haven't submitted yet."

"I have," she protests weakly, floundering. "I've done everything - everything you want -"

"You haven't submitted your mind," he says, "but you will."

Then his cockhead is probing for her opening, and her cunt pulses as he thrusts into her. Clings to his shaft as he plows her with it, hard and deep and fast. She grips the side of the desk with her fingers, but they are no match for the force of his thrusts. Her body edges further and further towards the far end of the desk with every stroke, her flesh reverberating, her cries in time with him. It's exquisite, like being worked by some relentless machine, completely out of her control, making her come and come and come and never letting her come down.

"What do you want me to do to you?" he demands, his voice faraway and ragged.

"I want to come," she gasps, nearly sobbing with it. "Please!"

"Wrong answer," he says again, but again, he doesn't punish her for it. She's too far away on the desk now for him to get all the way into her, and he grasps her hips and drags her hard back onto him, and then he's fucking her harder and faster than ever. She comes, over and over like galloping horses, stampeding over her in a herd.

He presses on, possessing her flailing body, filling her exhausted, swooning mind with half-formed thoughts of fuck me deep and fuck me hard until bright lights explode behind her eyes. She is almost weeping, surrendering to the spasms of her cunt and the fog in her head and the exquisite throbbing of her body being pushed and pulled with him. It's like being buffered by the high tide into a sea wall, harsh and all-enveloping. Her legs have completely given way and her hips are slumped on the desk as he fucks her through it all. Her climaxes are ragged things now, jagged cries and deep, hard clenches that seize through her whole body and don't let go. She is beyond pleasure now, beyond thought. She is in a cloudy, formless void with nothing in it but him.

"What do you want me to do to you?" he roars.

She chokes out, "Anything you want!"

He pauses, and then, slowly, he pulls out of her. Leans down over her, his body poised lightly over her back.

"Good girl, Bella," he murmurs tenderly. His fingers are in her hair, drawing it back. "Very good."

It overcomes her, his tenderness, his approval, and the relentless, bruising, scorching pleasure that came before it. Ugly, hot tears rise up in her face before she can stop them, and she squeezes her eyes tight against them, choking back silent, gripping sobs. Completely overwhelmed. He doesn't speak, just strokes her hair silently while she gets hold of herself.

Finally, she tries to push herself up off the desk, but her elbows and wrists are wobbly. He helps her sit up, unusually gentle, and draws her into the crook of one arm. He brings her to her feet, and, docilely, she lets him guide her the few wobbling paces over to the daybed. They're still half-dressed, and he Vanishes the rest of their crumpled clothes, and lays her down.

He sinks into her there, but this time, his demands are slow and easy ones. His strokes are slow, the weight of his body a comfort, pressed to hers from forehead to thigh. His kisses are deep and slow.

She didn't think she had anything left in her, but she finds there are still embers of desire there after all, embers he stokes into leisurely, flickering flames.

The climax he draws from her this time is a slow, quiet one. When he gives way to his own, it is with words half-spoken, Bella and pet and mine, and he lingers with her when they're done.

Master, she thinks in the no-mans-land between waking and sleep. I like that.

She likes that when she says it, he will know what it means.

It means, Anything you want.


	4. Notes

Bella called Voldemort "Master" during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, particularly when she was pleading with him when he was angry, so my head-canon for this story is that she was deliberately reminding him of her submission, and his subsequent tenderness here. And I did like the dynamic she had with Sirius here, especially Sirius taunting her that she wasn't a warrior, only for her to kill him the next day, and the tension between Sirius' attempts to slut-shame her and her complete refusal to be shamed.


End file.
